Song for Holden Caulfield

Writing about The Catcher in the Rye is a suicidal note.
But let the passion take over the masochism for a while. Because Salinger brings you back to the old school version of you, and Holden peeps out every now and then; never to be forgotten and never to grow out.

I've been trying for a while to continue writing this post, but something keeps me from summarising a masterpiece into a banal bunch of words. I might call this lack of self-confidence, shame or repulsion, but probably it's just what something this big can naturally haunt you with.
Because Holden's story might as well be everyone's story. A ritual of passage through the rye grass of life, adulthood and conscience.
I was 19 when I first read this novel, and someone told me that if you're older you're less likely to be impressed by the book. What I actually think is that there are several levels in everything we do, and thus several things to keep with you. The Catcher in the Rye is not children literature, it's not a bildungsroman; it is, instead, a stream of emotions and sensations we all feel during the course of our lives. And not only did Salinger give shape to what we feel all the time but never had the strength to forge, but he even antropomorphised it. In a shocking, uncompromising way. In a way that only Holden's words can truthfully explain:
"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though."
And Holden is not a kid. Because there's no age that life can defeat of lock up. You can read the book at any age, you can read it at any level, but there is no age without sensations. And that's what makes this masterpiece a timeless, ageless, spotless journey.


And, I dare say, there's no heart within a person who hasn't cried to that tiny little moment between Holden and Phoebe, those minutes of epiphany of the soul.
"I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don't know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could've been there."

Ten pairs of shoes you should never date

Taking a piece of inspiration from the brand new trend of making lists, I thereby pronounce myself eager to fill in another one.
I have no intention of offending anyone, but well--if you feel offended, answer your own question. In fact it might look like I'm being mean, but I'm just drawn that way. (YES, I'M MEAN)

10. The cowboy boots

Okay, anyone in the world should seriously reconsider the barefoot style instead of this, because there MUST be something wrong with those who do like these shoes. And this should be taken as a sign. Especially if you're not riding a bull. And if you are, well maybe one ranch stand?

9. New Rock

The Eighties are long gone, but some happily disturbed people just like to be heavy in every sense of the word. The metalhead who wears this piece of art can be recognised by the zombie-style walk, every night I'm shuffling!

8. Flip-flops

A real threat to humanity, it's apparently impossible to tell a green field from a cold steel rail California from Milan, that's why all these people are confused about it! Therefore my piece of advice is: "help a confused Californian--take him to the seaside". At least we won't hear him dragging those rubbers, causing Panic! on the streets of Londoooon...

7. White Superga

Coleridge used the albatros to convey the damnation of the ancient mariner, Superga goes beyond the limits of modernity and introduces you to one of the worst breeds of humankind. Mandatory with chinos, white Supergas will take you out on a romantic date on their Porsche-shaped boat. Help yourself to some murder.

6. Toms

Or "the deceiving shoes". Always look down first, in order to avoid delusions. It's this summer's latest trend, and even the cool ones will eventually show up wearing them, one day. Unfortunately, hating Toms means hating the 80% of the population. Nevertheless, it will be helpful in the future. In the meanwhile, you can walk around with a cutter.

5. MBT or The Rocking Shoes

Or how I learned to stop standing and love kinetics. People wearing this incredible, ergonomic piece of contemporary art should not be avoided. Instead, whenever you see one of these rockers you should hug them. Turn yourself in a pro bono social worker and help them realise it's a trap, an ugly trap. It's karma. What goes around rocks around.

4. Timberland

Unless you're Bob the Builder. Even if you are. Red Lorry Yellow Lorry's album was Paint your wagon, not your shoes. It's too painful to write about these shoes, that colour is killing my eyes so I'll just move on.

3. Crocs

"I hate myself and I want to die" was written about this. I guess Kurt is now grinning at us. And I seriously hope this works. 

2. Mocassins

Usually worn by a demented person, the mocassin is unquestionably a sign of smartness and wealth (and I'm a serious person). The only solution to a sailing club addict is hiding in a yellow submarine because, although people use them on boats, there's no connection between the two of them. This is the logical reason for hating those who wear mocassins, with or without socks (you're hideous either way. There's nooo other waaaay.)

1. Hogan 

This is what made me lose faith in the Italian race. And emigrate. Regression and decadence of the postmodern era summarised in a shoe. Because yes, what you've despised for ages because it's orthopaedic now it's cool and what I'm wondering is whether all these designers we have nowadays will make any good to our environment and society. The answer is NO and I from now on I'm going to kill Hogan people to make human leather out of them.

 AND GIVE THE LEATHER TO GERMAN TOURISTS

Song for Bret Easton Ellis

I was sleepless last night, and restless I was looking for something to say, and somewhere to say it. Then I lost it.
But. Since I'm still eager to express a dead feeling, I will try to write it down.

I finished reading Less than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis yesterday.

It's Ellis's first work. Written in 1985 but as scary as a dystopian future, there's absolutely nothing relevant in the book. All that happens is winter holidays and a bunch of walking-dead people, spoiled and rich and famous and infamous. With an almost boring plot, it doesn't lead anywhere, you don't feel attached to the characters, no sympathy for the damned... But then, you get to recognise the main points. They make themselves visible.

The sign, the annihilation. Disappear Here.
The drugs. The syringe fills with blood.
The obsession for perfection. You're a beautiful boy and that's all that matters.
Money ruling over people. Wonder if he's for sale.
Depersonalisation. People are afraid to merge. To merge.

Ellis's talented writing uses these recurrent features to create the idea of the obsession for things. Things are what makes the world go round, what introduces a person to another. Just like Patrick Bateman's business card in American Psycho, the teenagers here are anticipated by their cars, shoes, drugs, partners. Recurrent is the sign Clay sees everyday, and every day he gets closer and closer to it; recurrent is sex, and the escape from it, until it becomes a torture porn movie; recurrent is the annihilation of every form of feeling.
This absence of feeling is probably the most disturbing feature in Ellis's work. As I mentioned before, you don't feel sympathy for the characters. But why? I reckon it's not about the plot, it's not about the lifestyle. It's about the process of depersonalisation Ellis uses with them. He is probably the one author that manages to depict a character and make it flat. Completely. No feelings. No heart. No soul, no point of view. Well, this is what the term 'alienation' stands for. People - well, characters - just hide behind their things, their drugs and habits. They don't coexist.
"No man's an island", Donne said. Here there are neither men nor islands. Here we have bottles and cupboards.
People are afraid to merge because they're bi-dimensional and they haven't been created with this merging function, they're not full-optional.
The only spark of hope, humanity and life is in those few paragraphs in italics. That's how it used to be; the spark is in the past, therefore it's gone. That's where our protagonist becomes human and three-dimensional, but that's just a dream-like sequence, you don't ever feel there's a way to escape.
In a situation where even time is subject to this inhuman shift, all that's left is nothing to lose, a deep digging down the elevator.

And as the elevator descends, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even farther down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst.

Blue skies are calling

Ahhh. I haven't been writing for a while.
It's quite odd to be back on this platform after several months, and after all the things that have changed. It's like a different place. With a bittersweet taste.
I left England on the 29th of June. I saw the last English dawn from a car window, while going to the airport. Then I realised that we would all be apart; what scared me at the time was that feeling of detachment--we've been there, we've done that; now we're back to where we 'belong'. It's not a trip, it's an experience and it's what we've created from scratch just to watch it vanish a few months later.
Back here is like a parallel universe, still good but sometimes you have those flashbacks and you get pathetic (yes, you do!).
And I am pathetic indeed, that's why I will stop here and stop listening to To Tundra. Maybe a decent blog entry next time?

We don't need a sign 

to know better times 

Ciao!